


The Constant

by orphan_account



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Bittersweet, Death, Gore, Hallucinations, Historical, Hurt/Comfort, Insanity, M/M, PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Rape/Non-con Elements, Schizophrenia, Snapped, Triggers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-07
Updated: 2012-08-07
Packaged: 2017-11-11 15:08:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/479829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Ivan," Francis breathed gently, reaching a hand out to the grown nation. His heart sank when he saw the sadness and the distance in the cold violet eyes that, at one point, used to be so warm. He flinched when those eyes hardened into a glare, and he distressed knowing that the other nations saw Russia as nothing more than a monster. Did they not know how he was before, or had they forgotten? His mind had cracked, and it was beyond repair, but Francis still cared for him, just as he had centuries ago. "Ivan, I love you."</p><p>"I love no one. Never again."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**The Constant**

_con·stant_

__**adjective** _ _ ___1\. Occurring continuously over a period of time_ _ _

* * *

A small crowd was gathered inside the Dormition Cathedral of Moscow. Bodies huddled closely together in an attempt to keep warm, as their luxurious fur coats had been taken upon entering the building, and while the clothing of each man and woman there was gorgeous and exquisite in their design, they did nothing to stave off the chilly air that crept into the building on that cold, January day. It was the 16th, the year 1547. There seemed to be only three people who genuinely weren't shivering (because those in the crowd who weren't actually were, but they did their best to control it). Those three people were the priest, who was holding a golden skullcap in his pale hands, ornamented with sable trimming and shining gemstones of emerald, ruby, sapphire, amethyst, and golden topaz; the man kneeling in front of the priest who, on all accounts, looked absolutely stern and terrifying and strict and mighty; and the small boy toward the very back of the room, who watched the coronation with curiosity.

No one paid the boy any mind, regardless of how out of place he seemed.  _Why was a child here? He doesn't look like royalty or like anyone of importance._ That was the extent of their thoughts upon first seeing the pale-haired child. They couldn't spare him any more attention than that anyhow, not when they needed to focus on the Grand Prince of Moscow, soon to be crowned as the first Tsar of Russia. The young boy blinked once when the priest lowered Monomakh's Cap to the Prince's dark head, barely listening as he gave Ivan IV Vasilyevich his blessing. The newly crowned Tsar of all Russia rose to his feet and turned to face the small crowd, all of whom applauded quietly, bowing and curtseying to the Terrible figure.

Eventually, after hours of celebrating and eating and praising and kissing Ivan's jewel encrusted hands, the last guest left, a drunken "Do Svidanya" being uttered as he stepped out into the night to an awaiting carriage. That was when the Tsar turned to the boy, still standing at the back of the room, motioning him closer. The pale boy obeyed, kneeling in front of the powerful human. The Tsar extended a hand, placing it on the feathery, saturated locks of the child.

"Russia, from now on, until my successor, I am your boss. Do you understand?"

"Da, your majesty, I do."

"Do you have a human name, Russia?"

"…Nyet, your majesty, I do not."

The Tsar scoffed lightly. "That will not do. Is there a name you like, Russia?"

"…Ivan." This caused a curious quirk of the Tsar's eyebrow. The small boy blushed, looking down at his feet. "But if you would prefer me to not have the same name as you, your majesty, I could think of a different name."

"Nyet, I would enjoy for this magnificent country to share my name." The Tsar nodded, giving his approval. "…It is a great name, Ivan."

* * *

"Master Romanov (1),  _please…_ Settle down," came the very weary sigh of a stressed-out handmaiden. "The French ambassador will be here soon; we must make a good impression for Tsarina Yekaterina (2)." Unfortunately, the girl's words proved to do nothing but excite the young boy even more. Ivan bounced on the balls of his white-stockinged feet, hands gripping the window as lavender eyes stared out, as if the very motion would cause the carriage to pull up to the Winter Palace that very instant.

"Not  _just_  the French ambassador, Tati!" The boy, who looked to be about 12 years old, whipped his head around to look at the handmaiden as if she was an anomaly. "Fra—" Ivan coughed, almost forgetting to not mention that there were nations represented by people in this world. Thankfully, the man's human name was close to his country's name, and he could brush it off as merely forgetting formalities. "Monsieur Francis Bonnefoy is coming along as well!"

"And you have met him before?" Tatiana came forward with a snow-colored waistcoat in her dainty hands, happy for Ivan's distraction.

"Ah…nyet, I have not. But we have written letters to each other! He was helping me with my French!" the young boy looked proud of himself, pride overwhelming his senses at the ability to learn the tongue of another nation.

"Oh, so  _that is_  how you learned French so quickly," the dark-haired girl mused, slipping the boy's arms into the waistcoat before kneeling down and quickly fastening the gold buttons. "I take it he was fixing your mistakes?"

"Uh-huh!" Ivan nodded quickly. "He also sent me tips on the grammar structure!"

"That is very kind of Gospodin Bonnefoy," Tatiana smoothed out the wrinkles in the tight garment to the best of her abilities, and then rose to her feet again to grab the navy blue brocade frock.

"Da, it is! It will be so nice to finally meet him!" Ivan suddenly looked out the window again, and Tatiana thought that even a blind man could see his anxiety.

"Da, well, you will not see him if you are not dressed properly, so come here so I can finish dressing you!"

Ivan, for once, obeyed the female, deciding she was correct and that it would be silly to introduce himself to fashionable people when he was not fully dressed. Yekaterina would not be pleased. So he let his handmaiden slip the gold-trimmed coat on his arms, and lifted his legs when she pulled his feet into black riding boots, tucking the pure white breeches into the leather footwear. Ivan had then started to head back to the window to check on whether or not the carriage was there yet, but when he heard Tatiana clear her throat he immediately spun on his heel and sat down in front of the vanity, where the former was waiting with a puff in her hand. In routine, Ivan pulled his hair back so that Tatiana could lightly powder his already pale face. When she nodded, his hands fell to his lap again as she fixed his hair, then tilted his head up so that she could have a better angle to tint his lips and cheeks a light pink color. As soon as he was finished being made up, he hopped of the stood and dashed to the window, despite Tatiana's protests.

"They are here!" Ivan nearly squealed, his eyes going wide when he saw a black carriage park itself in front of the entrance. There was a knock at the door, and Ivan spun around as it opened.

"Master Romanov, your presence is now requi—" the escort paused, startled as he saw the young blond he was addressing come running toward him. "…required. Please come with me… _without_  running. Tatiana worked so hard in making you look presentable. It would be a disgrace if you ruined it by running."

Ivan composed himself.

"Let us go. Tsarina Yekaterina is waiting for us."

"Da. Please show me the way."

The escort then led Ivan off down the hall after a brief farewell was shared with the handmaiden. Tatiana collapsed on the stool, breathing a sigh of relief when the door closed behind the duo.

The walk to the main hall was silent, except for the rhythmic click-clack of two pairs of heels on the marble floors, and the escort wondered how it was that the boy trailing by his side could appear so calm when he knew that the boy was capable of becoming sick with excitement.  _Court training,_  he thought. Ivan knew what was proper and what was not. When they finally reached the Great Hall, Ivan bowed politely to the escort and sent him off. Yekaterina was waiting in the middle of the room, wearing a gorgeous, full gown that was the colors of the winter sky, decorated with gold accents, lace, furs, and many pearls and diamonds. The Tsarina extended her hand toward Ivan, and he took it, placing a kiss to her knuckles.

"Kak pozhivayete?"

"I am well, Vanya (3), but a little nervous," the woman laughed, and Ivan smiled at her, releasing her hand. "Of course, I am not nervous because of you, moi dorogoi. Your French is near perfect! I am scared that  _I_  may mess up!" This caused the boy to grin.

"I am sure even if you mess up, they will not mind! You are beautiful!"

Yekaterina smiled at Ivan, his simple words still managing to affectionately pull at the ruler's heart. "Let us hope you are right, Vanya." And so they waited for several minutes, though Yekaterina had to constantly remind Russia to stop fidgeting and stay still. Eventually, the waiting paid off, and Ivan stood to rapt attention when the doors to the Great Hall were opened, and an escort stepped through, followed by two men. Before the escort could even take another step toward them, Ivan's eyes went to the taller of the two. Needless to say, he was transfixed.

The man was tall and lean; not even the rich clothes could mask the man's slender frame. His gait was lazy, yet graceful at the same time, and his pale eyelashes seemed to leave fluttering kisses upon his cheek every time he blinked those vivid blue eyes. Before Ivan even realized it, the two men were a mere meter away from Yekaterina and himself, the escort standing to the side.

"Introducing Ambassador Louis Auguste Le Tonnelier de Breteuil (4), and the Gospodin Francis Bonnefoy to Her Highness, Tsarina Yekaterina II Velikaya, Empress and Autocrat of All the Russians, and the Master Ivan Romanov."

Yekaterina extended a hand again, and Breteuil took it, bowing low and placing a kiss to it. "Your Highness, you do look very lovely. And your palace! Why, from what I have seen of it, it is truly—"

Ivan continued to stare at the gorgeous blond in front of him, even when the Parisian noticed the lavender eyes on him, and looked away only when their eyes met. Ivan flushed, and Francis smirked, tucking a stray strand of golden hair behind his ear.

"Ah, it is about time we met, mon ami~" the man spoke, words spilling from his mouth fluidly, like water. "You are cuter in person, non? Your letters just seem so much more cute now that I can put a face to those words~"

"S-Si. Il est agréable de vous rencontrer, M-Monsieur Bonnefoy," Ivan curtsied, his natural flush peeking through the pink powder already on his cheeks.

"Ohonhon~, there is no need for that, mon ami," Francis held one arm behind his back, bending at the waist and taking Ivan's hand into his free hand. "I am flattered, oui, but I am the one in your country. I will speak your language during my stay; that is, until we start your lessons, of course!" Francis winked here, and then placed a kiss to the back of Ivan's hand, never breaking eye contact. When he pulled back, Ivan brought his hand to his chest, looking almost as if he'd been burnt, and it wasn't until the Frenchman straightened himself and gave his attention to Yekaterina that Ivan released the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"—would not mind if we went over these come tomorrow? Monsieur Bonnefoy and I are very weary from travel."

"Not at all, Ambassador. We are in no rush. I will have an escort show you to your suite. You will be joining us for dinner, I presume?"

"Of course we will, Your Majesty," came Breteuil's reply, Francis nodding in confirmation. "We could get to know each other better!" Breteuil let out a short, obnoxious laugh.

Yekaterina's lips were pursed thin, but she managed to give the round man a convincing smile. "Oui, of course."

Before the ambassador could get another word in, Francis took a step forward, bowing his head politely. "Excusez-moi, Votre Majesté, mais…if Master Romanov does not have any prior engagements, I should like to have him escort me, and perhaps spend the evening with me. I would love to talk to him and get to know him better, now that we have finally met face-to-face," Francis' eyes flickered to Ivan before returning to the Tsarina. "That is, of course, if Master Romanov is agreeable to this."

Yekaterina smiled. "Nyet, he does not have any engagements. If he would like to, he very well may escort you to your suite, Monsieur Bonnefoy."

"I-I have no objections, Monsieur Bonnefoy. I would be more than happy to show you to your suite."

"Ah! This is wonderful, non~? Thank you for your kindness, mon ami," the French man bowed in thanks, to which Ivan replied with a nod of his head.

"May we be dismissed, Your Majesty?" the pale-haired boy inquired.

The Tsarina nodded. "You may, Vanya, Monsieur Bonnefoy."

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Ivan replied, then turned to face Francis. "Shall we go now?"

"Oui, of course."

"Oh, Vanya," Yekaterina started. "Please send in one of the escorts for the Ambassador. They should be right outside the door."

"Da, I will." And with that, Francis and Ivan exited the Great Hall. Sure enough, waiting just out the mahogany doors, were several escorts, some holding the bags of the Palace's guests. Francis immediately walked up to the one holding his bags, so Ivan turned to one of the remaining five, relaying the information Yekaterina had given him. The escort nodded, then disappeared through the doors. When the boy turned back to the Parisian, he saw that he was holding out a slender hand. Ivan took it, his cheeks heating up when the other man's fingers wiggled their way between his.

"Shall we start your lessons right when we get to the room, mon ami?"

"D-Da, if it is of no bother to you~!"

Francis cooed. "Ah~, you are so cute Master Romanov!"

A small smile sneaked on to Ivan's lips. "P-Please, Monsieur Bonnefoy. You can call me Ivan, or Vanya, if you wish. If we are friends, there is no need for formalities, right?"

The other thought this over, humming in contemplation. "Si, there is no need for formalities. Mais…I will only call you by your name if you return the favor. You will call me Francis."

"Da, Mons- ah, Francis…"

They squeezed hands, and walked through the second set of doors to the Palace courtyard.

"Oh, I just remembered…" Francis blinked. "I brought along some presents for you~"

"S-Shto? You did not have to do that!"

"Oui, you are right. I did not have to. I wanted to, though."

The Russian wouldn't be surprised if his cheeks would always be heated up while he was around the Frenchman. "S-Spasiba, Francis…"

"Non, do not thank me. The gifts are  _my_  thanks to  _you_."

Ivan blinked, tilting his head. "What for?"

"Ohonhon, that is simple, you see? I am thanking you for keeping my company and for letting me see this cute face of yours." Ivan yanked his hand away, opting instead to cover his face in hopes that it would hide his now obvious blush. Francis laughed. "Non, mon ami! Non, do not do that! Let me see you~!" A few seconds went by before Ivan peeked through his fingers. A wide grin was on the others face. "All the way, mon ami~" Ivan hesitantly pulled his hands away from his face, and Francis took one again, content.

"W-Well, Monsieur Bonnefoy—" Francis cleared his throat. "Ah,  _Francis_ …if you are going to use that logic, then I need to get you a present too!"

"Oh?"

"So I can thank you for keeping  _my_  company, and for letting me see how handsome you are…"

"Ah, I see~" the blond nodded, that strand of hair coming untucked from behind his ear. "That makes sense. Hmm…" he tapped his chin with his free hand. "I suppose the best present you could give me is your complete attention during our lessons."

"But that's not anything you can keep!"

"Ah, you are wrong there, Ivan. I can keep the memories, non?"

"Y-You are weird, Francis…"

The pair (plus the escort carrying the suitcases) finally arrived at the other end of the courtyard, and after opening the door, they entered the Drawing Room before taking a right out the doors. They fell into a comfortable silence as they walked through the principal guest suite and into the next hall; turn toward their top right; they were now entering the guest apartments (which happened to be where Ivan stayed most of the time anyway). The first room they were in was large and luxurious, and Ivan told Francis this was the room the Ambassador would be staying in. Francis hid the small frown the crossed his features…of  _course_  he wanted that room. But he just nodded.

"Ah, oui. That makes sense," he brushed his bangs aside as they fell in his face. "Mais, I am more interested in where my room is, and where your room is."

Ivan blinked. "We are getting there, Francis. Do not worry!"

"I am not worrying, Ivan. I am just…impatient."

"Oh! Well, that is another thing we have in common, then! I could not wait to meet you! You can ask Tati if you do not believe me!"

"…Tati?"

"Tatiana. She is my handmaid."

"Oh, I see~ I will be seeing her around?"

"Da!" Ivan paused after entering the next apartment room. "Well, this is your room."

The room was tiny compared to the last one; not even a fourth the size of the other. It was still lavish, though, and all the furniture was glossy and reflecting the light of the setting sun gorgeously. The room was illuminated and bright because of it, and after taking in the surroundings for a longer while, Francis determined that he actually did like this room better than Breteuil's.

"It is nice, of course! Mais, it would be perfect if your room was right next to it."

"Then this room  _is_  perfect! See that door right there?" Ivan pointed. "On the other side of it is my room."

"This is wonderful, Ivan~! I am very happy with this~"

Ivan smiled sheepishly.

Francis turned to the escort, telling him to just place his suitcases down on the bed, that he would take care of them and he need not worry, and you are dismissed, thank you. The escort nodded and after following instruction, left the room. When he faced the small Russian again, he clapped his hands together, telling him to sit and close his eyes.

"What for?" he asked, sitting himself in one of the two plush chairs shoved in a corner of the room.

"I want your present to be a surprise as long as possible! Now, close your eyes so I can give them to you, and no peeking~!" Ivan closed his eyes, then for good measure covered them with his hands. His ears perked up when he heard the other opening his suitcases with a click, listening to the other rustle around for a little bit. A few second of silence passed by when Ivan suddenly felt a hard, flat item being pressed into his lap. "You may open~"

Ivan did as he told again, pulling his hands away from his face and looking down at the package in his lap, tied together with a black satin ribbon. He beamed, lifting the stack off his lap to get a closer look. "You brought me books?"

"You like them, non?"

"I love books! Thank you, Francis!" He set the books to the side, then hurtled out of his chair and wrapped his arms around the Frenchman's waist, hugging him tightly. Francis just laughed.

"Oh, but mon ami, do not get so excited! They are all in French; they are to help you in your studies."

"That is okay!"

"Only one of the books is a pleasure read—Voltaire's  _La Henriade_ ~ The other two are grammar books~"

"That is okay!" Ivan then pulled away, turning back toward the books and tugging the silky ribbon, freeing the leather bound volumes from their bindings. He picked up one of the grammar books, thumbing through the pages until he got to the first page. His eyes zeroed in on the page, focusing, and mouthed the words silently as he read along. He paused, a small frown forming on his lips, then read the line again. A few moments passed where he just stared at the page before he looked up at Francis, smiling sheepishly. "Ah, this must be advanced grammar, da? I cannot understand it…"

"Oui, that is correct. That is why I am going to help you~!" Francis sat down in the chair opposite the one Ivan took earlier, motioning for the Russian to sit as well. Ivan sat down, book open in his lap. "Non, you can put the book away for now. Let us play a game to help you review your French~"

"What kind of game?" he closed the book, setting it aside.

"I will ask you a question in French, which you have to repeat," Ivan nodded, "and then I will answer it. You then have to guess what you asked—what I told you to ask—based on my answer."

"Ah, that sounds fun! I love guessing games~" Ivan kicked his legs back and forth, then folded his hands in his lap, waiting patiently. "I am ready!"

Francis smiled. "Then, your first question is…Quel est votre plat préféré?"

"Quel est vo-votre…shto?"

"Quel est votre plat préféré, Ivan. You almost had it~"

"Q-Quel est votre plat préféré?"

"Ah, I do not know how to choose when I love so many kinds of food~ I guess…my favorite is filet mignon with oven roasted potatoes in a red wine sauce…"

Ivan grinned, kicking his feet again. "Francis, that is too easy! I asked 'What is your favorite food,' da?"

"Oui! You are so smart, mon ami! Try this one! Avez-vous des animaux?"

"Avez-vous des animaux?"

"Oui, I have a Bichon Frise," There was a blank expression on Ivan's face, so Francis quickly added, "It is a breed of dog."

"O-Oh!" the boy blushed, rubbing the back of his head. "Do you have a pet?"

"Again, you are correct!" Francis clapped his hands together. "Shall we try something harder? Hmm…try this; Voulez-vous m'embrasser?"

"S-Shto? That one sounds hard!"

"Just try it, mon ami~"

Ivan bit his lip in concentration, eyebrows knitting together. "V-Voulez-vous m—shto?"

"M'embrasser."

He tried once more. "Voulez-vous m'embrasser?"

Francis smiled softly, and then sighed dramatically, standing up and crossing the few paces between them. "But of course~ mais, only because you asked so nicely, and because I have been wanting to since I first saw your cute face."

Ivan tilted his head in confusion. "I am not sure what I—" The Russian boy was suddenly cut off when the older nation grabbed his chin, tilting his head up and placing a firm kiss to his lips. Ivan jumped; his eyes went wide and tried pulling away, but Francis would not sway and refused to budge. Eventually, he closed his eyes and timidly kissed back, which he decided must've been the right move, because France made a satisfied noise and pulled back after that. Ivan's face was flushed and he sputtered a few times before finally getting a hold of himself. "S-Shto? W-Why did you kiss me? I—did I ask you to?"

"Oui, you did," Francis smirked, almost as if he had this planned the very moment he suggested they play this game. "Ah, but mon ami…why are you blushing so much? I do not believe I have seen your face so red~"

"I-It is nothing! I am just not used to kisses…"

"Non? Tell me then—was this your  _first_ kiss?"

"N-Nyet! I have kissed many people before!"

Francis rolled his eyes. "Oui, mais…was this the first kiss you shared with someone you  _like?_ " The Frenchman leaned in close once again, brushing his nose against the Russian's larger one, his words ghosting over the younger boy's soft lips. He didn't fail to notice the shiver this action brought on.

"W-Who said that I like you, Francis?"

France let out an airy laugh, relishing in the way the other trembled and released an almost silent mewl as his hot breath hit the others face. "Russia~ did you forget that I am the country of love? I know more about this topic than anyone else—you definitely have an adorable little crush on me."

"Z-Zatknis'."

"That is not very nice, Ivan. You will hurt my feelings," teased the Frenchman, whose feelings actually weren't hurt at all. Ivan pouted, averting his amethyst eyes from France's sparkling blue ones. He mumbled under his breath. "Hm? What was that, Ivan? I could not understand you…" Ivan was sure all the blood rushed to his face when he glanced at Francis again, staring at the man's smirk. France definitely knew what he had asked; he was just being an ass and making Ivan speak louder.

"V-Voulez-vous m-m'embrasser?"

"Hm…  _maybe~_  That depends; do you like me, mon ami?"

"D-Da…"

"Good. Because I like you too, Ivan~"

Their lips met again, and this time Russia was not surprised. He was still shy though, and let the other do most of the work, barely responding to the slow movements of the other man's lips. With a little more urging from Francis, Ivan finally let his eyes close and wrapped his arms around the others neck, pressing into the kiss almost as firmly as the hands pressing into his back.  _When did his hands move there?_ Russia thought, but he shook it off when he suddenly squeaked at the feeling of the France's wet tongue brushing against his bottom lip. He tried pulling away, but the older man had sensed this reaction and held firm to the boy in his arms, remaining persistent in trying to invade Ivan's mouth. So Ivan tried a different tactic, and smothered Francis' face with his small hand, shoving it away.

"W-What was that, F-Francis?" gasped the Russian boy.

France pouted, not liking the rejection. "It was a kiss."

"N-Nyet—why were you using your tongue?"

"…It is a French kiss?"

"T-That is the way French people kiss?"

Francis shrugged.

"It is weird!"

"I think it is actually quite…stimulating."

"I think it is gross!" Ivan pulled a face, and Francis gave off a kicked puppy look.

"In time, mon ami, you will find it to be pleasurable."

"Nuh-uh! No way! You are not going to kiss me the French way anymore! You are going to kiss me the Russian way from now on!"

"…Mais, I do not know how to kiss the Russian way."

Ivan huffed, wiggling his way out of the others arms and out of the chair. "Nice try, Monsieur Bonnefoy, but you cannot get me to show you."

"Ouch, demoted to Monsieur Bonnefoy? Whatever happened to just calling me Francis, Ivan?"

"That is Master Romanov to you, Monsieur."

"You wound me." Francis pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve, dabbing at his eyes in an overly theatric display. "How long will you stay mad at me, Master Romanov?"

"…Until dinner," decided Ivan, after thoroughly thinking it through. "Then maybe you can call me Ivan again, if I think you deserve it."

"You are most kind, mais…" Francis watched as Ivan gathered up his presents, eyes lingering to his round rump. "…before you leave, I have one more thing for you."

"Shto?" Ivan turned around and Francis' eyes shot back up expertly, his secret perving going unnoticed by the younger nation.

"A Russian kiss~" Francis placed his hands on the other's shoulders, leaning down and pressing a quick, sweet kiss to Ivan's lips. Ivan smiled, but pulled away.

"…I am still mad at you, so I am going to my room until dinner."

"Oui, that is fair. I will see you at dinner then." Ivan nodded in response, then walked over to the door connecting their rooms and exited. Francis sighed, flopping gracefully back into his chair and rubbing his forehead. "…Mais, I was hoping to kiss for several hours," he mumbled as soon as the door to the Russian's room closed. He pouted again, crossing off the first item in his mental list of "How to Woo Russia Into Bed," seeing as his plan of making out with him didn't seem to work. Or maybe it had. Either way, Francis wasn't opposed to trying the next item on his list; lewd comments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I know Ivan's last name is not Romanov. But trust me, this will make sense later. ;3;  
> 2\. Yekaterina is the Russian name for Catherine II (Catherine the Great).  
> 3\. Vanya is a diminutive form for Ivan. A nickname, if you will.  
> 4\. Louis Auguste Le Tonnelier de Breteuil WAS in fact, the French ambassador to Russia during this time. *research!*
> 
>  **Translation of Russian**  
>  Context should give it away, but in case you still don't know what some words/phrases mean, I will translate them here.
> 
>  _Do Svidanya:_ Goodbye (frml.)  
>  _Da:_ Yes  
>  _Nyet:_ No  
>  _Kak pozhivayete:_ How are you? (frml.)  
>  _Moi dorogoi:_ My dear  
>  _Gospodin:_ Mister/Monsieur  
>  _Velikaya:_ the Great  
>  _Shto:_ What  
>  _Spasiba:_ Thank you  
>  _Zatknis':_ Shut up.
> 
> **Translation of French**
> 
> _Mon ami:_ My friend  
>  _Non:_ No  
>  _Oui/Si:_ Yes  
>  _Il est agréable de vous rencontrer:_ It is nice to meet you  
>  _Excusez-moi, Votre Majesté:_ Excuse me, Your Majesty  
>  _Mais:_ but  
>  _Quel est votre plat préféré?:_ What is your favorite food?  
>  _Avez-vous des animaux?:_ Do you have any pets?  
>  _Voulez-vous m'embrasser?:_ Will you kiss me?


	2. Chapter 2

"Russia~! Russia, mon ami…you should open up and let me in, oui?" the Frenchman knocked lightly on the door conjoining his room to the younger nation's. He received no reply. Francis sighed. It had been two hours since his small friend rejected his (perhaps too-soon) sexual advances, and there was still an hour to go until the handmaidens even came by to prep them for their meal. Needless to say, he was bored, but didn't feel like wandering around the large palace. Especially when there was a cute Russian right in the next room. "…Russia, if you don't open up, I will come in…"

No reply.

The Parisian sighed. "Alright, I gave you a fair warning…" he tested the door handle again and yes, it was still locked. So, he crouched down, pulling a hair pin from its position next to his ribbon. He frowned, not really liking the fact that he would be destroying a fine piece of jewelry. But the goal in mind was worth it, he thought. So, with that reassuring him, he started tugging and twisting at the thin piece of wire. He smiled when the make-shift key almost went completely in the keyhole. He pulled it back out, adjusting the wire slightly before sliding it back into the keyhole. It fit this time, so he wiggled the lock pick until it turned completely and he heard a satisfying click.

Francis tucked a stray lock of hair behind his ear, standing up and opening the door. He peered into the room, eyes quickly scanning for Ivan. His crystalline eyes landed on the bed across the room and smiled, because there, breathing gently and evenly, was Russia, snuggled into his pillows and fast asleep. Stepping into the room, Francis cooed, thinking the boy was just so adorable. He walked up to the side of the bed, kneeling down next to it.

Ivan had discarded most of his clothes before laying down for his nap, but remained dressed in his blouse and breeches. Francis, of course, frowned at this. If you are going to sleep, you either wore nothing, or you wore a nightgown.

Francis decided to fix that.

He gently grabbed the younger boy's shoulder, shaking him slightly. Ivan merely muttered an inane word in Russian, so Francis smiled and sat on the bed at Russia's hip, watching the other dip lower into the bed at the added weight. The Parisian then leaned forward, his thin fingers expertly undoing the buttons of Ivan's trousers. He quickly glanced up to ensure the boy was still in dreamland before sliding a hand behind the others back, using his free hand to wiggle the tight-fitting bottoms off the boy's pale, slender legs. He was disappointed to find that Russia was wearing cotton knickers. Ivan shivered, the chilled air immediately attacking his exposed skin, but Francis was already working on the dainty buttons of the other's shirt. Once the bottom button was undone, France started pushing the fabric away. France couldn't help himself. Once he saw the soft skin of the others torso, he ran his hands over it. However, he didn't get past Russia's slightly chubby belly before he heard a very quiet utter.

"…Monsieur Bonnefoy?"

…Shit.

Francis glanced up again and sure enough, there were a pair of sleepy, violet eyes on him. Ivan blinked once, then twice—a blush stared to spread across his cheeks. "W-What—"

"Shh…go back to sleep, Master Romanov~! I am simply changing you into your nightclothes…"

"How did you get into my room?" Ivan sat up, doing the exact opposite of going back to sleep, his fingers fumbling with his shirt buttons.

"Well, I—"

"Bozhe! Did you break in?"

"Not exactly, because I did not break anything. I picked the lo—"

"Y-You totally broke in! B-Bozhe, you— are you—? What are you trying to—"

Francis clamped a hand over Ivan's mouth, muffling the boys words. He looked irritated as Ivan continued to struggle. "Master Romanov, please, quiet down and let me explain." Ivan then gave up on trying to squirm away and decided to cease trying to button up his shirt as it proved futile; his fingers were trembling too much. Francis cautiously pulled his hand away.

"How did you get into my room?"

"I picked the lock."

"Why?"

"I was bored and I wanted to talk to you."

Ivan flushed. "W-Why?"

"Because I like you~"

"W-Well…why did you not wake me up, then?"

Because you are so defenseless and vulnerable when you are asleep and I wanted to ravish your body all nigh— "You looked so peaceful. I did not want to disturb that."

"Then why were you s-stripping me?" His blush deepened.

I wanted to see you nake— "Master Romanov, I already told you—I was changing you into your nightgown."

"W-Well…you did not have to go do that!"

"Oui, I apologize. I am very sorry for being rude."

"D-Da, well…you really were not rude…" Francis raised an eyebrow at that. "You were trying to be helpful. You just went about it the wrong way…"

"So you are not mad?"

"…Nyet," Ivan decided, his blush never going away completely.

Francis sighed in relief. "I am glad, then."

A silence settled over the two. It was not awkward, however, it was not pleasant either. No, the silence that befell them would be best described as unsettling. Neither person knew what the other was thinking. Perhaps that was the reason why they misread each other's intentions, but ended up enjoying the mistake regardless. France thought Ivan wanted him to finish the job of changing him into his nightgown, so he put his hands on the boy's shoulders, starting to push the garment down. Ivan, on the other hand, thought Francis wanted him to approve of his feelings of happiness and relief, so he slid into the older man's lap to better reach his face so he could press a kiss to his cheek. Francis was startled and turned his head, which, in fact, prevented the kiss from reaching its destination; it instead landed on his lips. Ivan pulled back, face pinkening at the mistake. Francis took the other's expression to be one of shy reluctance, so he decided to take the initiative and leaned forward, kissing the boy's upper lip. He could feel the heat radiating off Ivan's face, and he could feel the rapid thrum of his heartbeat as their chests pressed together, and the way his small muscles contracted beneath his fingers with every slight movement Ivan made as he shifted, wrapping his legs around the Parisian's middle and squeezing lightly. Francis made a strangled sound, his lips parting and pulling Ivan's upper lip into his hot mouth. But of course, like the last time when the kiss turned from innocent to wet, Ivan pulled back, bright red.

"I'm sorry, mon ami. I could not help myself…"

"N-Nyet, it is okay…" Ivan stared down in a daze at the Frenchman's tummy, his gaze unfocused. His legs loosened their grip on the older man's waist, and his hands slowly slackened, no longer fisting Francis' shirt. Instead, his hands trailed down the other's chest, smoothing out the wrinkles he had caused.

Francis closed his eyes, a small smile on his face. "You really are kind, Master Roma—"

"You can call me Ivan now."

"…Alright, Ivan." Francis opened his eyes again, rubbing the boy's back. "But as I was saying, you are very kind."

Ivan looked up, peeking into bright blue eyes, and returned the smile. He wiggled his toes. "You are kind, too!"

"How so, mon ami?" Francis started pulling the other's shirt back up his shoulders; his fingers licking the boy's collarbone as he started to button the shirt back up.

"Well…you brought me books…" Ivan motioned to his writing desk, "and you like to spend time with me."

"Of course I like to spend time with you! You are so cute and smart~"

Ivan was politely modest at this comment. "I am not as cute and smart as you say I am…"

"Oh, just shut up and accept the fact that you are."

Ivan blinked, a little shocked at the outright demand from the normally eloquent nation. "Y-Yes , sir…"

Francis pulled him closer once he finished buttoning up the white shirt, the smallest smirk ever present on his face. "Then say it~"

"S-Shto?"

"Say you are cute and smart."

Russia blushed, looking down at his lap. "I-I am cute and smart…"

"Say it to my face, mon ami. Do not look away~"

Ivan's lavender eyes flickered up to Francis' clear blue ones. "I…I am cute and smart…"

"Oui, Ivan. Oui, you are," Francis relaxed his hold on the younger boy, placing a chaste kiss to his forehead. "And there is nothing wrong with acknowledging that. It does not make you conceited to know that you are attractive."

"Well…I think you are very handsome…"

"Oui, I know I am gorgeous~"

Francis just laughed when the younger nation smacked his chest.

* * *

This was definitely unexpected. Ivan hadn't been expecting this, and normally, he'd be ecstatic for this surprise visit. But not now. No, definitely not. He gripped the knife in his hand with such force, that his knuckles turned white. Not that anyone noticed, he noted bitterly. Of course not. They were all paying attention to everyone but him. He hated it. He hated how Francis' attention wasn't on him, and he felt jealousy bubble up in his stomach toward the two people he loved the most.

"Braht, are you not hungry?"

Ivan forced a smile to his face, then stabbed a potato with his fork, cutting it up into smaller pieces. "Nyet, Katyusha, I am. I was just… thinking."

Ukraine hummed, her delicate eyebrows still furrowed together. "If you are sure…"

"Now, now, mon cher. Do not worry yourself. You have enough troubles right now, oui?"

"Tak, but…" She glanced at her little brother, knowing that underneath that smile, negative emotions were running rampant. She just didn't understand why… "Vanya, are you sure you are okay?"

"Da, sestra. I am fine."

"Ukraine, stop being such a jerk to big brother! You should leave him alone."

Nearly everyone in the room deadpanned at the youngest person in the room, her statement rendered invalid in their minds. When Breteuil coughed, Ivan tried shaking his left arm free of his little sister, Natalia.

"Da,  _everyone_ should just leave me alone…"

Yekaterina frowned, "Ivan… mind your manners. You should never be rude to others, even if their manners are not the best."

Natalia caught the fact that the last sentence was directed at her, and she glared at the Tsarina, though she did remove herself from Russia. Ivan rolled his shoulder, happy that blood flow was returning to the now-cold limb.

"Pardonnez-moi, mai… you may have to blame Master Romanov's slip ups on me. I did, after all, interrupt the little nap he was taking earlier…"

Yekaterina smiled softly. "That is kind of you, Monsieur Bonnefoy, but you need not take any blame."

"Yes," Breteuil snorted, swirling the wine in his glass flute before bringing it to his nose and sniffing. "It is not your fault if the young Master does not know how to act civilized." If anyone caught the brief second where Yekaterina's gaze on the ambassador turned steely and deadly, no one said anything. The corner of her mouth twitched, but her smile went right back in place.

"I can assure you, my country is civilized, Monsieur. I made sure of that when Russia came under my rule."

"Yes, well," the round Frenchman sniffed indignantly, then brought the flute to his lips before taking a sip of the spiced red wine. "even if he is civilized, Your Majesty, he is doing a fairly poor job of showing it."

"Breteuil," interjected Francis. "it is not your place to comment on Master Romanov's behaviors. Please, the Tsarina is kind enough to let us stay in her marvelous country; the least you could do is hold your tongue and keep your thoughts to yourself."

Breteuil just gaped, staring incredulously at the personification of his nation. His face started to turn into an unsightly shade of red-violet, and Ivan idly noted that should he ever need someone to impersonate the red beets he was currently eating, he knew whom to pull aside. The ambassador, however, swallowed whatever outburst that threatened to make itself known, and he sat back with the air of man who wouldn't think to waste his words on someone he viewed as shit beneath his boot.

And so the air was strained, the only noises heard being the clinking of cutlery on china. When the silence became suffocating, Francis cleared his throat, then slid that charming smile on his face again, directing his attention toward Ukraine. "So, do you feel grief toward your little brother, mademoiselle?"

"Shcho? Ah, nemaye. I do not feel any grief toward Vanya or the Tsarina. I wanted to see the hetmanate go away. I am…thankful that Tsarina Yekaterina abdicated Razumovsky from power. All the Cossack states feuded with each other, and it was causing too much turmoil…"

"And you are not mad at all?"

"Nemaye, not at all."

Francis cooed. "I see~ Well, you are a strong girl, are you not?"

Katyusha blushed. "I am not as strong as I would like to be. I do, after all, still require help from my—"

He tuned them out unwillingly. All he could hear was the blood pounding in his ears, his rage slowly building up once again. Yekaterina and Breteuil were speaking to each other, no one but the two humans noticing the hidden venom in each other's voices. Francis, noticing the two humans were distracted, moved the topic from Ukraine's political standing to more lewd questions. Katyusha was blushing, and trying to get the help of her little sister, however the moment she placed a dainty hand on the Belarusian's shoulder, Natalia pulled away, glaring at her and clinging once again to Ivan's arm.

"Natalia, let go."

"Nie, braht. Katyusha is being stupid again. I do not want her to touch me."

"And I do not want  _you_  to touch  _me._ "

"Why not? It is obvious that that disgusting French pig is going to lay with Katyusha, and the Tsarina and the fat one are too stupid to even notice what is going on right now. So I want to talk to you…"

"Shut up, Natalia.  _Let. Go._ "

"Nie, braht. We should become one…" Belarus leaned closer, out of her seat, and pressed her lips to Ivan's cheek.

"LET GO!"

The entire room stared in shock at the young boy who was now on his feet, face red with shame, humiliation, anger, frustration, embarrassment, and depression. No one could believe it when they saw the cute boy abruptly stand, prying his sister off him and shoving her to the floor. Natalia stared up at him, blinking slowly as a few tears escaped her eyes without her notice; she had rammed her head on the corner of Katyusha's chair and she now lay slumped on marble floor, a hand holding her throbbing occipital. Katyusha was clinging to the edge of the table, having nearly fallen out of her seat at the collision. And everyone just stared.

"Ivan…"

He didn't know who had addressed him. His eyes welled up with tears at that moment, and he spun on his heel, taking off and dashing out of the dining room. He didn't stop running, either, even as he burst through the doors. He could only hear the pounding of his feet landing heavily on the floor, the sound of his blood pumping through his veins, his heart beating in his chest, and the choked sobs and gasps that fell from his lips. When he finally reached his room, his thighs were burning, his lungs suffocating, and his hands trembling. Ivan could barely open his door, but when he did, he immediately stumbled into the warming room, a fire having been started in the fireplace several minutes earlier, thanks to Tatiana. He barely remembered to close the door in his childish misery. He then climbed up on his bed, pulling his throw over his head and his legs up to his chest, hugging them, trying to stifle his sobs. He stared out at the fire, watching the flames reach up high to try to lick at the heavens. He bit his lip as he watched the fleeting sparks die when they tried to get too close to the heavens, and the tears were renewed in their strength. Ivan couldn't stand it, and when he looked away, rubbing at his eyes harshly, he caught sight of the books on his writing desk.

_Stop mocking me…_

It was then that Ivan decided; if the flames of Hell couldn't reach Heaven, he'd bring the angels down to meet the demons. He blinked away a few stray tears, and slid off his bed, the throw falling to the floor in the process. However, before he could reach his desk, he felt a warm, soft hand on his shoulder.

"…Mon ami, are you feeling ill?"

Ivan stiffened, but refused to turn around. "…Nyet."

Silence. The hand then squeezed gently. "Are you tired?"

"Nyet…" his voice wavered.

"Then…what was that back there?"

Ivan inhaled shakily, trying his best to keep his tears at bay. He spun around, his watering, red eyes glaring at the lean man in front of him, voice accusing. "You were flirting with my sister!"

"…Oui, I was."

"Why?"

Francis desperately wanted to say it was because he found Katyusha to be extremely attractive; that he wanted to pull her into his arms and pepper her with kisses; that he wanted to let his hands trail down her collarbone to her soft, succulent breasts and cup them; that he wanted to make love to her to sate his burning libido. He didn't, though. He knew that would upset the boy even further, so he instead apologized. The boy needed comfort, not another reason to add to his distress. "Ivan, I am sorry." He took hold of the boy's hand, bringing it to his lips. "I did not mean to upset you. You are protective of your sisters, non? All brothers are, I suppose, so it was foolish of me to flirt with her right in front of—"

"Shto?" Ivan pulled back, confusion flashing in his eyes briefly before it disappeared and was replaced once more with anger. "N-Nyet! I do not care about that! People can flirt with my sisters; I do not care! I care because it was  _you_ who was flirting with her!" His hands clenched into fists at his sides, face red and tears sliding down his damp cheeks.

Francis blinked, and then realization hit him.

"Ivan, mon ami…are you…jealous?"

A small sob escaped the boy's lips, and once again his hands were at his face, rubbing harshly at his cheeks, eyes stinging. Francis felt his heart flutter at the sight, and he kneeled down in front of the boy, wrapping his arms around a small waist. "I am so sorry, Ivan. I did not know…"

Russia hiccupped, then kneeled down as well. Francis sat back, pulling the boy into his lap and rubbed his back soothingly, another hand curling into the soft tresses of the other nation's pale hair. "Shh…it is okay, mon cher. I will not leave you…" Ivan clung to France's frock, burying his face into the older nation's neck. "Tu es beau, mon cher. Ne pleure pas…" Francis continued to murmur soft words in his mother tongue to Ivan, only stopping when the boy's sobs subsided and his shaking shoulders stilled. He pulled back a little when Ivan did to rub his eyes, and he hooked a finger beneath the boy's chin, urging the boy to look at him. Ivan blinked and sniffed, and Francis smiled. When they kissed, it was chaste and sweet, and even when they pulled apart, Francis continued to press small kisses up the boy's nose, to his forehead. He kissed his ear, and Ivan closed his eyes.

"…Where is Kat?"

"She is helping Miss Natalia…" Francis murmured softly in his ear, and immediately felt guilt roll off the boy in waves.

"…I-Is Nat okay?"

"Oui, she is. She has a headache, but no concussion, luckily."

"S-She must hate me…"

Francis quickly kissed the boy again. "Shh, do not start crying again Ivan…" He continued when the boy took a shuddering breath, but kept back his tears. "Miss Natalia does not hate you. In fact, she said right before I left that she… 'probably deserved that' and that it was her fault that you shoved her. Your older sister agreed, saying," and here, Francis mimicked the young woman's voice, "That is what you get for clinging to him! I told you several times to let him have his space!"

Ivan laughed a little, though the usual brightness was absent. He then resumed a look of worry. "What about Yekaterina?"

"Ah, she was shocked, oui. Mais, she was not angry. Well, not at you. I swear to you, I thought she was going to kill Breteuil." Francis frowned.

"Pochemu?"

Francis laughed humorlessly. "That fat pig was being a pompous snit, as usual. Insulting you…that was why your Tsarina was furious. He just does not know when to shut up. I personally wanted to punch him, he was so rude."

Ivan looked down in shame, fingers idly pulling at France's shirt. "…I made a bad impression for Yekaterina. Breteuil will tell your rulers how awful I am…"

"Non, I do not think you have to worry, mon cher. I can…persuade Breteuil to not say anything."

"O-Oh, okay…" Ivan's voice still held that uncertainty, and Francis picked up on it. So he decided to instead change the subject.

"You know, Vanya…when children are upset, they have a hard time sleeping," he paused for the other and when he knew he had Ivan's attention, he continued. "Children then will seek comfort, and it is only then that they will fall asleep." Francis smiled. "Now, in my country, normally parents will stop letting their children sleep with them because of nightmares and tears at around six years of age. However, for you? I think I will make an exception."

The young boy looked at Francis, a small smile creeping on to his face. He hugged the other, arms wrapping around his neck. "Spasiba, Francis…"

The older man laughed, the sound light and sparkling. Ivan loved it when Francis laughed. He wanted to hear it all the time, because there was nothing sad about it. The laugh was pure, happy, uplifting, and honest. "Well then, let me go get my nightgown, and I will be right back." Ivan nodded, then shyly kissed the man's cheek before sliding off his lap to change into his own clothes. Francis stood, ruffling the boy's hair, then disappeared into his own room.

As soon as he left, Ivan's eyes went back to the books. He didn't need to drag an angel down to Hell with him. The angel's soft hand took his own and helped him fly up to the Heavens.

His smile didn't quite reach his eyes, but then again, the violet windows were sore and tired, his sclera tainted red from all the rubbing and tears. He walked over to his wardrobe, feet softly padding across the hardwood floor. He opened the oak doors, pulling out a cotton gown, and then shut it once more. He heard a knock on his door, the one that was not connecting his room to the Frenchman's. He walked over to it and opened it; Tatiana was standing there.

"Are you ready to change, Master Romanov?" Her smile was kind and knowing; he knew that Tatiana found out what happened earlier, but he didn't comment on it. He didn't want any pity for a wrongdoing he did.

"Da, I am."

Tatiana nodded, and then stepped into the room. Ivan walked over to his bed, tossing the gown over the footrest. Tatiana was right behind him, her small hands immediately taking off the boy's blue frock. Once that was shrugged off, he sat down, undoing the buttons of his matching waistcoat while the handmaiden pulled off his riding boots and stockings. After he slid his arms out of his waistcoat, he stood once more, and Tatiana undid the buttons on his breeches. He wiggled out of those and held his arms up over his head. His shirt was pulled off, and was soon replaced with the floor-length nightgown. He popped his head and hands through their respective openings, and then was led over to the vanity, where a bowl of warmed water was waiting. He sat down and dipped the cloth that was right next to it into the bowl , wetting it and washing his face clean of the makeup that covered it while Tatiana dressed down his bed for him. He wrung out the cloth, then folded it over the side of the bowl.

"I am going to go assist Gospodin Bonnefoy now if you do not need anything, Master Romanov."

"Nyet, I am good. Thank you, Tati."

Tatiana curtsied, then exited the room the way she came. Ivan watched her leave, then grabbed  _La Henriade_ off his desk as he headed back to his bed. He sat down, sliding half-way under the covers and opening the book to the first page, setting it on his lap. His finger underlined the words as he snuggled up and read, waiting for Francis to appear. He did not understand most of the book, but he filled in the blanks using the information that he had picked up. Whether he was on the right track or not, he did not know, but that wasn't of any matter to him. He decided, he would read this book over and over again until he understood French near perfectly, so that he may properly enjoy the book.

Although he was content to just read, he did close it after having read twenty pages and there was still no sign of the French man who had given the piece of literature to him. He set it on the bedside table and looked up, sighing and staring into the fire. Perhaps Francis had fallen asleep? Then, just as he was about to just lay down and close his eyes, he heard a soft rapping on the door connecting his room to Francis'. He glanced toward it, catching the door as it opened and the French man stepped in.

"Ah, I am sorry mon ami. I did not mean to keep you waiting."

Ivan blushed. He had thought the man was gorgeous when he first met him, but now? Francis looked even more so now. His golden hair was down, no ribbon restricting the silken waves. The locks framed his face perfectly, making him look even more elegant and angelic than he had before. The simplicity of his clothes brought out his beauty even more, Ivan thought, too. His night gown was pure white, crisp and neat, and ended at mid-thigh. He could only gaze transfixed as the Frenchman walked over to his bed, eyes focused on the long, slender legs, coated with pale, baby-fine hairs. The bed sunk slightly as Francis sat next to him, sidling up to his right. He caught a masculine, musky scent on the Frenchman that he hadn't smelled before when he was this close, but…he liked it. He closed his eyes, resting his head on the man's shoulder and inhaled, nearly shivering when a warm—warmer than normal—hand came up to his neck and rested there. Ivan shuddered, a small, almost silent mewl escaping Ivan's lips, but Francis didn't catch it, his mind too tired and too hazy to hear the sound.

They pulled the blankets up, and lied down, adjusting the pillows as necessary, Ivan clutching to the older nation's gown and Francis wrapping his arms around the boy.

"Spokoinoi nochi, Francis…"

The man shifted slightly, pressing a kiss to the boy's forehead. "Spokoinoi nochi, mon cher."

They soon drifted off to sleep, Ivan's worries withering away, his dreams filled with images of spending evenings in Paris with the man he was snuggled up against, of sharing wine as they watch the sun set over the horizon. Francis was dreamless, his body instead focusing on regaining his strength instead of wasting the time on dreams.

In the other room, Tatiana gathered up the Frenchman's bedsheets for washing, her own body begging for sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translation of Russian**
> 
> _Bozhe:_ God  
>  _Sestra:_ Sister  
>  _Spokoinoi nochi:_ Goodnight
> 
> **Translation of French**
> 
> _Mon cher:_ My love  
>  _Pardonnez-moi:_ Pardon me  
>  _Mademoiselle:_ Miss  
>  _Tu es beau:_ You are beautiful  
>  _Ne pleure pas:_ Do not cry
> 
> **Translation of Ukrainian**
> 
> _Braht:_ Brother  
>  _Tak:_ Yes  
>  _Shcho:_ What  
>  _Nemaye:_ No
> 
> **Translation of Belarusian**
> 
> _Nie:_ No  
>  _Braht:_ Brother


	3. Chapter 3

Francis loved beautiful things.

He loved women; their soft curves and delicate hands and sweet faces allured him. He was often called a deadly womanizer by those around him because of the fact that he couldn't keep his hands to himself and that he always chased after nearly every type of female. They were some of nature's most beautiful creations, he thought, and that is why he loved them.

He loved men; he loved the sturdy ones with sharp features and a strong build, the ones who smelled of oil and sweat, or the ones who smelled of timber and pine; he loved the ones who were refined and lean, the ones whose hands were nearly as soft as a woman's, the ones who smelled of fine wine and cleansing oils, or the ones who smelled of sealing wax and parchment and ink. They, too, were some of nature's most beautiful creations, and that is why he loved them.

He loved children; they were so pure and sweet, and their innocence made his heart flutter. He loved the way they laughed, their curious eyes, and the way they accepted others (if they had not already been…conditioned…by their part of society) without questioning. He loved how they thought everything, from the smallest ant to the biggest building, was amazing. Children were some of nature's most beautiful creations, and that is why he loved them.

He loved language; the way words rolled off one's tongue. French was, to him of course, the most beautiful compilation of syllables and sounds in the world. He loved hearing the musical notes ring in his ears, and he loved feeling the words form in his mouth. Though he would not admit it, he did in fact, love the sounds other languages made. Italian and Spanish were much like his own; they were fluid and romantic, and the words melted easily on the tongue like a fine piece of chocolate. English was sturdy and always had an air of wilderness about it; he blamed the fact that English was a descendant of the Anglo-Saxon words that existed centuries ago, but he didn't mind it. In fact, he took solace in knowing that no matter how much of a gentleman Arthur would try to be, he would always have that hint of ruggedness in his voice. German was even more wild than English; its guttural, rough sounds made Francis shiver; the language just spoke of power, and it excited him. And Russian? To him, it was a happy mix between the fluid grace of French, the sturdy nature of English, and the commanding tone of German. It is part of the reason why he did not mind speaking the language; it was, simply put, beautiful.

He loved mornings; there was that certain serenity to them that could not be matched; that moment at five a.m. where everything was still, and the light coming through the windows bathed everything in a relaxing light blue, and doves cooed and birds chirped. It made him feel relaxed and at peace, and made him feel like everything was right with the world. He loved mornings because of their beauty that could not be matched.

But most of all…most of all, he loved Ivan.

He loved the way he was cuddled up against his side, small fingers clutching on to his night shirt. He loved the way his body was small and soft and warm, and the way his head fit perfectly in the crook of his arm and shoulder. He loved the slow, even breaths the boy took, and he loved how the boy was obviously lost in peaceful slumber. He loved the occasional waft of lavender scent he got from his silken locks. He loved the way that blue, morning light reflected off Russia's body; it gave him such an ethereal appearance, and it made him look so much more innocent. Like an angel.

Francis ran a hand through Ivan's hair, delighting in the feel of the soft locks through his fingers, and the small, barely audible sigh the boy made as he snuggled closer to his side, a pale leg thrown haphazardly over his own. Yes, it was moments like these that Francis never wanted to end; the quiet, peaceful moments where the only worry he had was whether or not he would accidentally wake up the child next to him.

A smile graced the Parisian's features as Ivan's pink lips parted for another sigh and landed on his clothed pectoral in an unconscious kiss. Francis shifted and bent his head down to plant a kiss on Ivan's forehead, a hand stroking the boy's shoulder.

"Mm..?" Francis paused when he heard the upward inflection on the nonverbal question, and smiled when the boy's head shifted to look up. Ivan smiled, eyes sleepy, but focused on the Parisian. "Dobroye utro…"

"Good morning, Vanya. Did you sleep well?"

"Mm," Ivan yawned, nodding his head and snuggling closer. "Warm…"

Francis laughed, petting the Russian's pale locks. "Are you now? That is good~… Ah, but mon cher, I think you are also still sleepy, non?"

"N-No I am not."

"Non?" Francis smiled, pressing more kisses all over Russia's face, to which the boy squealed with delight.

"F-Francis! Your beard tickles!"

"Does it now?" The French man rubbed his chin along Ivan's jaw line, causing the Russian to burst into a fit of giggles, trying to squirm away.

"Pozhaluista! Francis!" He wiggled, small hands pushing on France's chin.

Francis relented, laughing and grinning as the Russian continued to let out little bouts of giggles. He sat up only halfway, hands planted on either side of Ivan's head, leaning over the smaller boy. "Vous êtes tellement mignon, mon petit Russe."

Ivan turned a lovely shade of pink, Francis noticed, and he seemed to be trying to will the bed to devour him. "S-Spasiba, Francis…"

"Vous êtes la personne la plus mignonne que j'ai jamais vu…" Francis shifted his weight onto one palm, bringing his other hand the Russia's rosy cheek and stroking it gently.

"F-Francis…" Ivan's blush only intensified and he stared up at France, his lavender eyes wide and blinking quickly.

"…Je t'aime."

And before Ivan could even reply, Francis's hand trailed to Ivan's chin, fingers slightly grasping it, and he leaned down, capturing the Russian's lips in a firm—yet somehow soft—kiss. Ivan responded immediately, his eyes slipping shut and a small keen of agreement escaping his throat. He wrapped his arms around Francis's neck and returned the kiss eagerly, lips moving against Francis's at the older man's urging. France's hand slipped, trailing down the pale expanse of Russia's exposed neck, fingers curling to the back and his thumb pressing up against the underside of his mandible. He was surprised, to say the least, when the innocent move elicited a small moan from the boy. He pulled away from the kiss, a thin eyebrow arched into a delicate arc.

"Oh? What is this, Ivan~?" His thumb trailed down the underside of Ivan's jaw to his neck, pausing right above his trachea and rubbing small circles into the skin. A grin broke out onto the Parisian's features when his actions caused the boy to squirm and blush madly and gasp beneath him. He uncurled his fingers; instead running his palm up and down the side of Ivan's neck, watching as the boy arched his back and twitched, holding back barely-contained moans. "Vanya~…" singsonged Francis, "…you did not tell me that your neck was so sensitive~…" He leaned closer, pressing kisses to the expanse of pale skin opposite of his hand, ears perking up delightedly when the boy gasped even louder.

"F-Francis…I-I…" The Russian cut himself off with a sudden moan, his face heating up. The Parisian just smirked, continuing to trail his tongue up the boy's neck. There was the moan he wanted to hear. God, did the boy make the most beautiful sounds…

Ivan grasped tight fistfuls of France's silky waves, writhing delightfully beneath the other man's ministrations and tilting his head back, to which Francis, of course, took the invitation happily. He wrapped his lips around a small portion of skin, sucking gently at first, then harder when he found this was the quickest way to draw forth those cute noises from the pale-haired Russian boy.

"Je t'aime, Ivan~"

"Y-Ya…" Ivan gasped again, pressing his body closer to the Frenchman's, "Ya tozhe lyublyu tebya..!"

"Mm~?" Francis glanced up, staring into hazy violet eyes. He knew that look; centuries of experience burned the knowledge into his brain. "Is mon petit Russe aroused~?" A rhetorical question, but he couldn't help that smirk that was etched into his lips when the blush on the boy's cheeks darkened and he squirmed.

"F-Francis…"

The Parisian nudged his way between Ivan's legs, hands running up the pale, slender thighs to push a fabric of his sleeping gown up to his hips. He then grabbed the thin hips and pulled the boy's bottom onto his lap, flush against his own arousal. "You naughty boy~…"

"F-Francis, d-do not talk…" Ivan's face broke out into one of bliss, and his squirming did nothing to help the older blond, who simply rolled his hips against Ivan's backside. He leaned forward, whispering huskily into the Russian's ear.

"I can fix that for you, mon cher~…"

Ivan whimpered. "F-Francis, please..!"

"…because I am not one to deny such a needy little child the satisfaction he needs~."

"M-My tummy-!"

"I will make sure you are  _thoroughly_ loved."

Well, he would have, if Ivan didn't suddenly arch sharply, his child's flexibility showing through in that moment. Russia moaned loudly, body wracked with spasms, as pure ecstasy was written over his face. It was a gorgeous sight to Francis, but he pulled away, staring down at the Russian as he panted harshly, obviously coming down from a high brought on by the sudden orgasm. Francis raised an eyebrow once again, a teasing smirk resting on the corner of his mouth.

"…Oh my~. Did you really just climax by the sound of my voice?" The embarrassment on the boy's face confirmed his thoughts. "How cute~. You really are a naughty boy." He leaned over to kiss Ivan's lips, but pulled away when he hardly got any response. "I assume you are more awake, though~?"

Ivan shook his head. "S-Sleepy…"

…Oh. Right. Normal people tended to be tired after experiencing an orgasm, not more awake. Francis frequently forgot that, and mentally slapped himself. That's what happens when you have an overcharged sex drive, he supposed. "Ah, that makes sense. However, mon cher, you can not fall back asleep. We need to get you cleaned up and dress—" He paused, noticing how Ivan's eyes slid closed, obviously slipping back into his dreamland. France smiled the tiniest bit, then slid out from between Ivan's legs, tucking the boy back into the sheets.

"…Well, I suppose you can take a little nap."

…Besides. It gave him the perfect opportunity to take care of his own problem back in his own room.

* * *

"Ivan."

"…Da, Your Majesty?"

Yekaterina sighed. "Please, Ivan. Do not look so distraught. I am not here to lecture you or scold you. I know that you are a good boy, so do not think that I am angry."

"Da, Your Majesty."

"I just wanted to know…what happened last night?"

Ivan glanced up, wanting to see Francis there, but he and the Tsarina were alone, and her eyes were watching him with that motherly sort of curiosity. "…Lots of things happened…I was tired, and upset, and…jealous."

"Jealous? What of?"

Ivan blushed here, looking down at his feet once again. "F-Francis was flirting with Kat…"

"And you were jealous of your sister?" Yekaterina frowned. "…Vanya…"

"I-I am sorry! I cannot help it!" Ivan bit his lip, looking up once more, a flash of panic flitting through his violet eyes. "I-I know it is wrong, but—but Francis is so nice and handsome a-and—"

"Shh…calm yourself, Vanya." Yekaterina sighed, then stood from her chair, taking the few paces to where Ivan was standing, trembling and looking as if he had severely disappointed the woman who was doing such a good job raising him and making him stronger. "Normally, I would be upset, but…" She reached out and stroked his cheek in a comforting manner, a thumb gently brushing his temple and nudging its way into his hair. "…you nations are immortal, are you not? Although we all see homosexuality as a sin, you will never die. Therefore, you will never go to Heaven or Hell, despite any sins you may commit. If you love Francis, then…" And here, she paused.

"B-But…you do not approve…"

"No, I do not. However, I know you are stubborn, and despite what I say, you will continue to see him, right?"

Ivan nodded, looking down at his feet.

"Look at me, Vanya." Yekaterina waited until the boy's eyes were on her before continuing. "Monsieur Bonnefoy has done nothing but good for you, so who am I to bar you off from him? He will help you grow, I am sure. Just…" here, she leaned closer, "…do not let anyone else find out, and do not get yourself hurt."

Ivan blinked quickly, trying to hold back his tears, and he wrapped his arms around his ruler's neck, kissing her cheek. "Spasiba, Mama!"

A warm smile crossed Yekaterina's lips, and she pulled back, ruffling her nation's hair. "There is no need to thank me. After all, even though every mother wants what is best for her child, every mother also wants her child to be happy. Monsieur Bonnefoy makes you very happy, I can tell." Ivan nodded, rubbing his eyes. "So stop that crying. Smile for me, Vanya." Ivan did just that. He looked up at his Tsarina, eyes wet but sparkling with happiness, and he smiled widely.

"Spasiba, Mama! Ya lyublyu tebya!"

The woman laughed lightly, the sound warm and soft. "Da, da. Ya tozhe lyublyu tebya. Now, go on," she gave the boy's shoulders a gentle push, "I believe someone is waiting for you."

Ivan nodded quickly, shooting Yekaterina one more grin, before he dashed out the doors to see his lover.

* * *

Francis leaned up against the wall, eyes closed and eyebrows knotted together in exasperation. He had just finished talking with Breteuil, the insufferable bastard, and the man had left him in a foul mood. Once again, the aristocrat had insulted his sweet Ivan…He frowned, remembering how he felt like knocking the portly man unconscious, then shipping him to Barcelona where he was sure his good friend Antonio would find some sort of severe punishment for the man. Perhaps either by throwing him to the Spanish pirates, or shipping him off to the New World for hard slave labor.

Then, he felt a pair of arms wrap around his hips, a head leaning up against and nuzzling the bottom of his sternum. Francis smiled then, and he laced his fingers into soft, short hair. He opened his eyes, gazing fondly down at the Russian boy. "How did it go, Vanya?"

"Yekaterina says I can be with you!"

"Ah, this is wonderful news, non?"

Ivan cuddled closer to Francis, happiness exuding from his very being. "Da, it is! I am so glad that we can be together. No one will be able to separate us!" Cerulean eyes stared down into hopeful violet, and he saw adoration shining within them.

"…Oui, no one will separate us."

Ivan brightened and his grip around the Parisian tightened. "And we will be together forever!"

"We will be together until you hate me."

"Which will be never!"

Francis laughed, then kneeled down to give Ivan a firm kiss. "Then forever it is."

Ivan kissed the Frenchman back. "Maybe we could even get married!"

"Ohonhon~? You want to be my wife?"

Ivan blushed and pushed away from Francis. "Nyet! Your  _husband._ You can be the wife!"

"Oh? Why am I the wife, then?"

"…You are prettier!"

"That is not a good enough excuse, mon cher." Francis chuckled, placing another kiss to lips when a pout formed there.

"But I am not a  _girl._ " Ivan furrowed his eyebrows.

"Neither am I, Vanya~…"

"…Then we can both be husbands, right?"

"Oui, of course."

Ivan smiled, then hugged the Frenchman again. "Good. We should plan the wedding soon!"

Francis shook his head. Why was his little Russian so cute? "Vanya, it is a bit too early for marriage. We have only just begun courting each other, after all."

"…But we love each other, right?"

"Oui."

"Then why can we not be married?"

"…You are still in your puppy love stage, mon petit Russe."

"But…"

"There is no need to rush in to marriage, Ivan. I promise you, we can be married some day. Just not now."

"O-Okay…"

Francis smiled warmly, then took Ivan's hand in his own. "Hey, you know what?"

"Hm..?"

"I think now is a good time to see how your sister is, oui?"

Ivan's eyes widened, the thought having now just crossed his mind (and did he ever feel like an awful brother because of that…), and he nodded quickly and tugged on the Parisian's hand. "D-Da! Come on! We need to go now!"

And so, Francis was dragged through the halls of the large palace to another set of guest suites, and he was about to beg Ivan to stop running or slow down at least when they finally paused in front of the door. Francis quickly straightened out his appearance, whereas Ivan honestly didn't care and just opened the door, stepping in.

Ukraine was sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed in the simple clothes of those from the countryside, slicing an apple into small wedges. She looked up and smiled, not once pausing in her job—years of experience had made it second nature. "Pryvit, Vanya."

Belarus, who was sitting up with several pillows supporting her, immediately straightened, blue eyes glinting. A cold compress was tied to her head with the white ribbon she normally wore, and Francis idly thought the look was humorous. "Braht…"

"Privyet, Kat," Ivan's eyes flickered over to Natalia and he felt guilt bubbling up in his stomach again. "Kak pozhivayete, sestra?"

"Vydatna," Natalia relaxed into the pillows, seemingly brushing off the large headache she surely had. "I feel much better than I did last night…"

"I-I am very sorry about that…" Ivan bowed his head, looking every bit like a child—he  _is_ a child, Francis had to remind himself—feeling deeply regretful. "I mean, I am sorry about what I di—"

"Braht," the Belarusian interrupted. "I should be the one apologizing. You told me several times to let go, and I did not listen."

"But that does not mean it was acceptable for me to push you and—"

"Braht." Natalia's eyes flashed almost dangerously. "You did nothing wrong. Stop blaming yourself."

"Ah, Miss Arlovskaya…" Francis nearly flinched when that steely gaze shot to his face, and he had to suppress a shiver when the glare turned menacing and possessive ( _So, possessiveness is a familial trait, huh?_ ). He cleared his throat and offered a warm smile. "Perhaps you should just accept your brother's apology?"

"I will accept no such thing," spat the young girl. Her facial features then softened, her voice calming. "I will not accept any pity or sorrow from braht. I will only accept love."

Everyone in the room heard the unspoken 'and marriage,' and Francis felt like scooping up the trembling Russian and running from the insane girl. However, Ivan managed to keep his ground, and he instead walked up to the bedside, sitting on the edge of the luxurious mattress. He leaned forward and kissed his sister's forehead and grabbed her hand, rubbing circles into her palm with his thumb. And then, he murmured something. Francis's ears perked up, but he just…he couldn't really understand what was being said. It  _sounded_ like Russian, but it was very different, too. He couldn't pick up the words, but it seemed like Ivan's sisters understood perfectly. (1) Katyusha smiled softly, muttering something back in that strange language, and Natalia nodded her head in what Francis assumed was agreement.

Then, a warm smile broke out on his face when the three siblings embraced each other, Ivan excitedly saying something in that foreign tongue, happy tears flowing freely down his face. Francis was touched by the scene, and he allowed himself to slip out of the room unnoticed to give the siblings their bonding time. He quietly shut the door and sighed, folding his hands together behind his back. He turned down the hall and started walking, his heels click-clacking on the marble flooring, and his bright blue eyes fixed in front of him.

Francis loved beautiful things. But most of all…most of all, he loved Ivan.

Perhaps, he thought, the reason wasn't simply because of how cute the boy was, or how right it felt to have the young Russian cuddled up next to his side. Perhaps…perhaps he loved Ivan because of his sweet innocence, and the way he loved with all his heart. Perhaps he loved Ivan because of how accepting he was, even when he was terrified. Perhaps he loved Ivan because of the boy's sheer strength, and how he pushed his way through hard times to find just that little bit of happiness. Perhaps he loved the way Ivan defended what he loved; defended  _him,_ like a stray pup protecting his small scrap of food.

Perhaps it was all of those reasons, and more. Whatever the case, Francis couldn't find it in him to care. He loved  _Ivan._ He loved his sweet Russian boy, and he wanted to keep him forever. He wanted to protect him from the harsh realities of the world that the boy had already had the displeasure of experiencing. He wanted to dote on the boy and love him and make sure he was never unhappy ever again. He never wanted to see the boy cry out of sadness ever again. If he was to make the boy cry at all, he hoped those tears would be tears of happiness, like what he just saw only a few moments ago. He wanted to be a mother hen. A big brother. His lover.

But…he knew that the way he was now, that would never happen. Francis knew he was greedy; that he was a man of pleasures. He was a libertine, and he knew that Ivan would hate that. He would make Ivan cry. He would make his poor baby cry tears of sadness and anger if he stayed the way he was.

Already, guilt was starting to eat at him. Tatiana…was that the handmaiden's name? How horrible…there he was, his sweet Ivan, waiting patiently in the next room over last night, and Francis had bed the young girl to satiate his sexual desires. Already, he had betrayed his Ivan. He couldn't forgive himself for that. Yet, at the same time, he couldn't deny the absolute pleasure he had felt when he finally reached his post-coital bliss. He had used Tatiana. And he had betrayed Ivan.

Francis sighed, this time in sadness.

A hand ran down his face, fingers rubbing at his temples. He was so selfish. He only glanced up, ripped from his thoughts, when that  _fat pig_  Breteuil so rudely interrupted him.

"Bonnefoy! There you are!"

Francis frowned. "There should be a  _Monsieur_ in there somewhere."

"Oh, shut up," the ambassador snapped, clearly in a foul mood. "We are leaving."

The nation blinked, shocked at the sudden declaration, but his face immediately resumed its displeased look. "Like hell we are. We are supposed to stay here for a week to sort out business."

"Business is all sorted out. We are leaving now."

"No, we are not. Do not be so rude, Breteuil!"

"Just shut up, Bonnefoy!" Breteuil's eyes flashed angrily. "I can not stand this accursed country, or that fat  _bitch_ —"

"… _Fat bitch?_  You better not be disrespecting Madam Yekater—"

"—or that little  _brat_ she so desperately defends—"

Francis was seeing red.

"—They can  _all_ go to hell for all I care! They are worthless, anyh—!"

Breteuil was abruptly cut off when he was shoved up against the wall, long, delicate fingers wrapped around his fat neck and squeezing with a deadly strength no one would have thought the blond to possess. Steely blue eyes glared into panicked brown ones, so deadly and cold, yet raging with a fire so intense, it made the other Frenchman sweat. His nose curled in disgust, and Breteuil was thanking the heavens that Francis didn't have a concealed dagger on him. Otherwise, he was sure, he'd be lying in a pool of his own blood.

" _Do. Not._ Ever.  _Insult. Them. Again."_ Francis hissed, venom dripping from every word. His fingers gave another squeeze before unfurling, and Breteuil coughed desperately to urge air back into his lungs. Francis just watched with cold, heartless feeling, sneering. "…Yes, we should go back to France right now. I will give you three days to say goodbye to your family. Then you will be exiled." Breteuil coughed, looking at the Parisian, and was about to protest, but one glance caused the portly man to swallow his words. "…I never want to see your disgusting self in my country ever again once you are exiled. Do you understand me?"

Breteuil nodded. Although embarrassing, he supposed exile was better than death.

* * *

"But…why are you leaving?" Ivan pouted.  _How cute…_

Francis laughed. "I already told you, mon cher. We have taken care of business here early, and therefore, our presence is no longer needed."

"That is not true! I need you!" Ivan argued, violet eyes looking suspiciously wet.

"Oh, non… _non,_ do not cry, mon cher…" Francis kneeled down to Ivan's height, pulling him into a warm embrace. Ivan hiccupped, wrapping his arms around the Frenchman's neck.

"B-But…I am going to miss you! I need you!" He wailed, his small body shaking like a leaf. It broke Francis's heart.

"Non, non, non…You do not need me, Vanya…"

"Y-Yes I do!" Ivan's voice wavered, trying his hardest not to let his voice give out. "I n-need you so much…please, please do not leave!"

"Ivan…" Francis pulled away to stare into those pretty eyes, his hands cupping plump cheeks and wiping away the tears that were now running in tracks down the reddened flesh. "It will not be long until we see each other again, trust me…I need you to be strong, oui?"

"But—"

Francis placed a finger to Ivan's lips before the boy could protest and smiled gently. "Non, no arguing. You are strong, and you can do this. I believe in you."

Russia sniffed, but nodded reluctantly, pulling himself close to the blond again. "I-I am going to miss you…"

"I am going to miss you too, Vanya." Francis kissed the boy's ear, a hand running down his back. "But I will write you back every single time. I promise. I will send my letters out the very day I receive yours."

The Russian sniffed again. "P-Promise?"

Francis smiled gently, pulling back and kissing Ivan chastely on the lips. "Oui. Promise."

…Yes. Francis loved Ivan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Ivan and his sisters were speaking Old Eastern Slavic from when Russia, Belarus, and Ukraine were one country; the Kievan Rus', which is why it sounded Russian, though Francis was having a hard time understanding. C:
> 
> **Translation of Russian**
> 
> _Dobroye utro:_ Good morning.  
>  _Pozhaluista:_ Please.  
>  _Ya tozhe lyublyu tebya:_ I love you too.  
>  _Ya lyublyu tebya:_ I love you.
> 
> **Translation of French**
> 
> _Vous êtes tellement mignon, mon petit Russe:_ You are so cute, my little Russian.  
>  _Vous êtes la personne la plus mignonne que j'ai jamais vu:_ You are the cutest person I have ever seen.  
>  _Je t'aime:_ I love you.
> 
> **Translation of Ukrainian**
> 
> _Pryvit:_ Hello.
> 
> **Translation of Belarusian**
> 
> _Vydatna:_ Fine.


	4. Chapter 4

_19 January 1772_

_Dear Francis,_

_The years are flying by fast, are they not? You would not believe it, but I have read through_ La Henriade  _six times now. The poetry is beautiful, and it remains to be my favorite book in my collection. I thank you so much for giving it to me…_

_Do you know what else is crazy? Thanks to Yekaterina, I have grown so much. And in just a few years, too! I would not be surprised if I was as tall as you now—Yekaterina must have been so mad; she had to hire tailors to make me a whole new set of clothes every few months, it seemed! I think even Tati got exasperated; said she had never seen a growth spurt as fast as mine before (though, she does not know I am a country, so she probably just thinks I am a mutant, da?)!_

_I have not stopped working on my French, either. I believe I have gotten very good at it—I would even go as far as to say I am fluent! Of course, this is partially thanks to you (I have kept all your letters correcting my French) and the grammar books you gave me. Only partially, though! I am the one who had to do all the practicing, after all! I am only joking, of course. You are half the reason why I am so good at speaking your language now, so thank you._

_You would not mind if I come visit you soon, I hope? I miss you, and I would love to catch up with you face to face as opposed to these letters. They take so long to reach you, and I highly dislike not hearing from you for months. It is so much nicer talking in person, da? I would love to see you again soon—the years have gone by fast, but it has been far too long. I have much to show you._

_Sincerest regards,  
Ivan Romanov_

Francis smiled once he had finished reading the letter in his hand, his fingers trailing over the neat signature at the end, tracing the deep tail of "R". He could tell the boy matured with each letter he received from him—the language was more adult, and the penmanship became more readable; more elegant.

He walked over to his desk, sitting down in the plush chair, and then pulled out a stack of parchment, uncorking his bottle of black ink. He picked up his swan-feather quill, dipping the tip into the ink, and then started scratching away at the paper.

"My dearest Vanya…"


	5. Chapter 5

_27 March 1772_

_My dearest Vanya,_

_You must be insane to think these years are fast. Every day seems like a century if I cannot see your face. You are so cute and charming, and you cannot fathom how much I crave to see you. Years going by fast…you sure are a silly boy!_

_You like_ La Henriade  _that much, do you? Perhaps that was the wrong choice of book to give you, then. I should have given you one of Voltaire's other books first—none of them will compare if you like_ La Henriade  _that much! It does not matter, of course. I am glad that you enjoy it. It warms my heart…_

_So, you have grown a lot, oui? As tall as me, you say? Non non, mon cher, I refuse to believe that. You are not as tall as me; it is impossible! I will accept you being almost as tall as me, but you must still be mon petit Russe. Unless, of course, you have grown to be very handsome, which I do not doubt. Ah, mon cher, how I wish to see that face of yours…And, if you are as tall as you say you are, I would love to see how that body of yours matured. Is your skin still soft and pale? I imagine you have lost some of that child's fat—not that you were chubby, of course. I am merely trying to imagine you with sharper features…_

_Ah, I wish my Russian were as good as your French. I should probably practice it more, but alas, I have been so busy lately. Louis XV has not been causing any trouble lately, though the public is still not happy. I have a feeling that when his grandson takes the throne, my people will be even more upset. Louis XVI is married to an Austrian woman, and my people are not very fond of France's relationship with Austria. But I digress; I must not make a mountain out of a molehill now. It probably is not even that big of a deal._

_I would love for you to visit soon, mon cher, for I too miss you dearly. When that does happen, I promise we will sit together for hours and just talk and catch up._

_Forever Yours,  
Francis Bonnefoy_

Ivan smiled warmly, holding the sheets of parchment with just as much love and gentleness as he would hold the man who wrote it. He brought it to his chest, ears perking up at the slight crinkling noise that the move brought on, and his nose twitched when a waft of rich perfume made its way up his nostrils. It smelled just like how he remembered Francis…

"A letter from Monsieur Bonnefoy, Vanya? You have that look on your face again," laughed Yekaterina as she cut into her slice of roast pig.

"Da. I…I think I may take a trip, if it alright with you."

Yekaterina smiled, and nodded. "It has been several years. You two are long overdue for a meet up. You should pack up after you finish your supper, and I will send a letter to Louis XV post haste."

Ivan had to remind himself to eat slowly.


End file.
